


In The Moment

by Kat_Rowe



Series: Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aziraphale Comforts Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Bad Day (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Discussions of mental illness, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Descriptions of Mental Illness, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Themes, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), because our dear idiots have been through some sh!t, but recognizing that is the first step to moving past it, how did something this dark end up in my sweet series?, nightmare about major character death, please mind the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Rowe/pseuds/Kat_Rowe
Summary: The problem with severe trauma is that you tend to think you're just fine. Until the second you're not. Sometimes all it takes is one bad day, when everything gets away from you and your ability to cope decides to go AWOL.When Crowley has one of those days, his first since the day the world didn't end, he goes to Aziraphale for comfort. Things get worse before they get better, then they get worse again.Aziraphale thought Crowley was happy, and starting to heal. When he wakes up to the sound of screaming, he starts to understand that neither of them are quite all right. Healing takes more than emotional support, even if it helps. But having someone to love and accept you helps so very much, and makes the future, and the present, worth fighting for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657927
Comments: 18
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [morgaine2005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgaine2005) both for the beta work and for the all the emotional support. As someone who suffers from PTSD, this was a bit difficult for me to write. But, at the same time, I think it's a part of their journey that needs to be explored. And on that note, triggers warnings for the entire fic. Please, _please_ mind them and tread cautiously.
> 
>  **trigger warnings:**  
>  PTSD  
> anxiety  
> nightmares  
> queerphobia  
> abandonment issues  
> guilt  
> potentially problematic alcohol consumption  
> vivid dreams about fire and about major character death  
> (More complete explanations and breakdown of triggers by chapter can be found in the end notes if you're still unsure whether you want to read this.)
> 
> Sorry that this one is a little bleak compared to the others in the series, but it did feel necessary, and I promise you the next one will be _so_ much happier. Because the thing with trauma is that, once you acknowledge it, even if it doesn't instantly heal you, it does allow you to start enjoying life again in a way you almost forgot was possible.

Crowley was not a clingy man. He wasn’t a man at all, even if he generally went man-shaped these days. And, to be fair, one couldn’t be a snake and not be at least a little clingy. Part of the snake code of conduct, that: thou shalt boss around rodents and cling to thy selected mate like over-tight spandex. But that was just when he was a snake. When he was person-shaped, he generally took his angel’s absences in a more philosophical light. He was grown up after all, as grown up as they came, really. He didn’t need to orbit his angel like one half of a binary star system. He liked to, found it comfortable and comfort _ing_ , but he didn’t _need_ to.

That didn’t do much to cheer him up when he opened his eyes this morning and, instead of gazing on tousled curls and pink cheeks, the pillow next to him held nothing but a cream-colored envelope. Sealed with silver wax, because of course it was. The angel had even pressed his ring into the wax before it dried, and etched Crowley’s name under the seal in his neat near-calligraphy. Smiling slightly at that, despite his disappointment that Aziraphale was absent and obviously had been for some time, Crowley reached for the note, carefully prying off the seal intact instead of breaking it. Old habits. 

How did that ridiculous angel always manage to perfectly center his writing? Showoff! 

_My dearest Crowley,_ _  
_ _You were sleeping so sweetly that I couldn’t bear to wake you. And I daresay, on a chill morning such as this, you wouldn’t have thanked me for doing so at any rate. An urgent bit of business has come up at the bookshop, which I simply could not delay. I do hope you’ll forgive my unannounced absence. I’ll certainly do my best to find some way to make it up to you, although I don’t mean to be away for terribly long._

_I’ve left a light breakfast for you on the warming tray in the kitchen, if you’re feeling peckish. I made coffee as well. It’s to be quite a bit warmer by this afternoon, so I thought we might go out for our evening meal? It feels like it’s been an age, and I do so miss having you on my arm in public._

_Call the shop if you need anything, and I look forward to seeing you this evening. Be careful if you go driving in my absence; it’s going to rain rather heavily this afternoon and traffic will no doubt be dreadful._

_Perhaps it makes me the most foolish kind of sentimentalist, but I find myself missing you a bit already. Still, there can be no reunions without the occasional separation. So we have a reunion to look forward to now. Have a lovely afternoon, and call me when you decide where you’d like to go tonight. Anywhere you like. Maybe we can take in a show as well as sharing a meal?_

_Yours, affectionately and entirely,  
_ _Aziraphale_

Crowley snorted at the letter, smiling and shaking his head. Anyone else, Crowley included, would have scribbled one or two lines: _had to run to work. love you, call me_ , or something of the sort. Aziraphale had filled an entire page with his gorgeous script and affectionate sentiments. And, while it wasn’t quite the same as being privileged to receive the angel’s first smile of the morning, a note like that was definitely enough to start Crowley’s day on the right foot. He folded the paper up neatly again, climbing to his feet. If it ended up in a ribbon-bound pile of other correspondence inside a safe, that was no one’s business. Heading into the kitchen, he helped himself to the coffee the angel had left him, moaning with relief as sipping it warmed him from the inside. Tugging back a curtain showed that the frost was gone from the window, definitely a promising sign that the cold weather was finally on the run. The sky might have looked threatening, but he would take rain over snow or sleet any day. 

Knowing that the weather would be looking up improved his mood, too, so he was smiling as he hopped into the shower and made plans for the day. Dinner and a show, definitely. It had been too long -- Aziraphale was right. And, before their night out, he could pick up some pastries and a bottle of something nice for the angel to enjoy while he dealt with… whatever sort of professional emergency had compelled him to hurry to his secondhand bookstore on a dreary Sunday morning. Since the shower felt amazing, and because he seldom had the flat to himself these days, he lingered long after he was clean, allowing himself a little extra enjoyment of the sort most blokes would have partaken of on a lazy morning home alone. 

Probably a mistake, all things considered. It took a second cup of coffee to wake him up again.

He dressed warmly and, after a moment’s consideration, shrugged on the winter scarf Aziraphale had insisted on buying for him. It was far too thick and fluffy to look really stylish, but it was black, shot through with fine red and silver threads so casual observers would realize its owner was still stylish, cuddly scarf or no. He could shed it once the temperature outside started to rise. He was halfway across the street to his Bentley when he decided that, after spending so much time lately cooped up inside avoiding the cold, it would probably feel good to stretch his legs. That was one of the good things about London. Traffic might have been uniformly horrendous (for everyone who was not Crowley), but most locations worth visiting were easy enough to reach without ever needing a car. Granted, any walk around London was best enjoyed with Aziraphale by his side, chatting casually as the angel exuded goodwill towards the world in general, and much more specific delight in Crowley’s company. Walking without him just wasn’t the same. And between the chilly air and lack of his angel’s company, Crowley’s mood was rapidly turning grim.

It was earlier than he was usually up and around, so Gerry’s wasn’t open yet when he sauntered up. But the woman inside, cleaning and setting up for the day, recognized him when he tapped on the glass, grinning and hurrying to let him in. 

“Didn’t realize you were closed until noon on Sundays,” he told her, gratefully hurrying inside. It was, as promised, getting warmer, but the wind was starting to pick up, too, which meant that being outside was still no fun for anyone with a metabolism like his. The climate-controlled shop was a serious improvement. 

“That’s all right. I didn’t realize you ever got out of bed before noon,” she countered, smirking. “Anything in particular today?” she offered. “I was just about to set the till, but if you need help…” 

“No, you do what you need to. I’ll browse. I’m just looking for something to surprise a certain bookseller with.”

“Ah,” she answered with a knowing grin. “Let me know if you need a peek behind the counter. We got a shipment in on Friday.” Voice turning coaxing, she added, “Few bottles of Sullivan’s Cove.” 

“Sghmrnwhhn?”

“It’s not the old stuff,” she admitted with a not-quite-apologetic shrug, doing her best not to laugh at his reaction and failing badly. “But, still.”

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding quickly. “Still. How many do you have left?”

“Just two,” she answered, grinning at him. “Shall I ring them up?”

“Good start to the financial day,” Crowley snorted, reaching into his pocket and fishing his wallet from the interdimensional space he generally stored it in so it didn’t ruin the lines of his trousers. “I forget, do you work on commission?” 

“Why, need a loan?” she scoffed, gesturing to the total on the register display.

“Daylight robbery, that. How do you people sleep at night?”

“On a large pile of money surrounded by beautiful women. Anything else for you today?” she added, swiping his card and handing it back. 

“Just shut up and give me my booze!” he directed, grinning at her and tucking his wallet back into the void again. 

Handing him the bag, she teased, “I’d tell you to come again soon, but we both know you always come back whether I’m polite or not.” 

Crowley mock-grumbled at her, grinning over his shoulder as he left the store. That particular clerk’s behavior varied from vaguely sarcastic to downright insulting, but he knew that she also got along very well with Aziraphale, so she must have had hidden depths. And she had an excellent memory, not just when it came to the shop inventory, but to what her customers had enjoyed in the past and might enjoy in the future. He was so busy giving her a wave and a cheeky grin over his shoulder that he almost didn’t recognize the woman walking past him outside on the pavement. 

Not that he needed to look at her face to know who she was. _What_ she was. The air filled with a sweet fog as she passed, and thrummed with an energy that could almost be mistaken for sound. All around, without even realizing they were doing it, humans were idly humming in time with the disturbance, subtly swayed by her mere Presence among them. Shit! Shit, bless, fuck! 

Why did it have to be _her_? A Duke of Hell, skulking around Soho! He wanted to let her go, pretend he hadn’t seen her, but he couldn’t afford the perception of weakness that could create in her and other demons. No, he’d have to confront her, and bluff his way through, make her think every instinct he had wasn’t screaming at him to find a deep hole and hide there until she was gone.

“Murmur,” he growled, slamming the shop door and moving swiftly to her side. He forced a smile, all teeth and false cheer. “Fancy seeing you here!”

She spun to face him, making a noise like a vulture with a sore throat. Hard to tell if the sound was anger, defiance, or something else, but she looked wary as she stared up at him, which was probably a good sign. She was much shorter than he remembered, and it took him a moment to realize that she’d completely changed corporations at some point. Last he’d seen her, she was tall, broad-shouldered, and regal-looking. These days, she looked like an underfed kid in ripped jeans, a stained t-shirt with a stylized griffin emblazoned across the front, and dirty-blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun. A barkeep might assume she was old enough to serve but was more likely to just hope she’d taken the trouble to get a convincing fake ID. As a few people glanced their way as they walked past, he reflected faintly that it wouldn’t take much for her to turn appearances to her advantage, making him look like the kind of sick pervert who would harass a lone girl on the street. Not likely, though. Murmur was more direct and straightforward than that. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked when she didn’t speak.

She stared up at him in silence for a moment longer, then shook her head, sighing. “I’m just working, okay? I’m not here to mess with you. I’ll be in and out before you know it.” 

“Soho is under my protection,” he insisted, baring his teeth and glaring with much more authority than he was actually feeling. Murmur didn’t like to fight, but she _could_. She was still a soldier, for all her intellectual leanings. Anything more than a conversation and some posturing was bound to go poorly for him.

“Fuck that,” she answered, shaking her head and, for just a moment, looking very much like the stroppy human girl she was pretending to be. “I don’t want anything to do with you, or your little white dove, but you can’t just declare two busy neighborhoods in west London to be off-limits to our kind! I’ve got no gripe with you, Crowley, and I don’t want a fight, but why should I steer clear? Soho and Mayfair are massive dung heaps, _swarming_ with corrupt souls, and some of us still have numbers to make!”

He sighed at that, feeling an almost sympathetic twinge as he remembered what it was like to be coming up on the end of the month without enough souls in your ledger. It was true that Murmur wasn’t the type to go picking unnecessary fights, but he still didn’t feel comfortable seeing _any_ demon only a few minutes walk from the bookshop, especially not one so powerful. How could he?

“London’s a big city, philomath. You’ll manage. Besides, you were in the science game last I heard. Not many natural philosophers in Soho these days,” he told her, hoping the edge to his voice sounded like irritation rather than anxiety.

She grunted in irritation of her own, rolling her eyes. “Fewer people chasing knowledge for the sake of knowledge these days, especially since _you_ stopped the Fireworks. Suddenly, for reasons they don’t actually comprehend, everybody wants to save the world. A disgustingly small number of people are willing to barter their immortal souls for that shit and, even if they were, the logistics of a deal like that are a fucking nightmare. What’s a girl to do?” she demanded in obvious exasperation, shrugging again. The body of a teenager suited her; she could have weaponized that sullen lift of the shoulders. 

He sighed softly at that very logical line of reasoning, jaw clenching and stomach churning. But, at least she was still talking instead of trying to grind him under her heel. Telling himself that counted as a win, he said quietly, “I’m listening. What _are_ you doing these days?”

“Fucking odd jobs,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Illegal investment advice, encouraging people to start MLMs, showing up in summoning circles for drunk kids, that kind of shit. I used to _be_ someone! Riding a griffin and dispensing knowledge to sorcerers! The modern era may have some real professional possibilities, but I miss having heralds and a crown.”

“Eh, the crown never suited you anyway,” he comforted, torn between snorting at her rant and feeling real sympathy at her loss of prestige. She was one of the few Dukes of Hell who didn’t make a point of asserting their rank by being nasty to people who couldn’t retaliate. Sympathy won, just barely, but it was heavily alloyed with caution. “Look, Duke Murmur, what do you have going on right now?”

She nodded towards a nearby coffee-shop, where a woman was screaming at a barista loudly enough to be heard on the street outside. “She lives in Dalston. Just visiting her in-laws in Soho, so I’ll definitely be able to avoid your patch while I work on her, no problem. Bitch wants to write a self-help book, needs a muse. _Find inner peace and learn to radiate positivity in six easy steps. Serenity is just a few breathing exercises and dietary changes away,_ ” she cooed, making a hand-gesture that was unspeakably crude, even by demonic standards.

Crowley let out a low whistle, unable to stifle an unexpected surge of professional fellow-feeling. “Prize catch.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Wants to take time off work to write the book, plans to plunder her kid’s college fund to do it.” Tongue darting out to wet her lips, she urged, “Come on, Crowley. I’ll be raking in dividends for _years_ if I can get my claws into this one. And you quit the game, so I know you don’t want her soul for yourself…”

He sighed, weighing his options. He could attack and, if she was surprised, possibly kill her human body before she managed to destroy his. Ripping her in half, or turning into a snake and breaking her neck, would definitely send an effective message about his stance on demons showing their faces in Soho, but any attempt was likely to get very ugly, very fast. And, even on a sleepy Sunday morning, too many people were bound to notice something like that for him to be able to effectively cloud all their memories, to say nothing of CCTV footage, or of Aziraphale’s tutting if _he_ found out. He could chase her off with simple threats and, for all her power, Murmur had a strong enough self-preservation streak that it might even work. She did seem wary, and that was a good sign. Still, she’d never done him any wrong, and a magnanimous gesture to a powerful Duke might prove useful at some future point. If nothing else, it would imply that he was operating from a position of unassailable strength.

“Any other demons operating in Soho?”

“Nah,” she answered, shaking her head. “Word downstairs is that you piss Holy Water these days. Most people aren’t sure whether to be more afraid of you or of the renegade angel, so everyone is treating the whole area as a massive Exclusion Zone and steering well clear.”

“Except you, apparently,” he noted, scowling as if he had a right to be annoyed by her presence.

Murmur sighed, holding up her hands and admitting, “I’d assumed the cold would keep you off the street for a few more days. Misjudged the timing. Clearly. _Come on_ , Crowley. Do a girl a favor.”

He sighed, aware that things would get very ugly if he decided to be vindictive now. She wasn’t some low-level minion he could push around with impunity, and he’d given her enough time to prepare herself to retaliate if he became anything other than relatively civil.

“Fine, but this is a one-time thing, Duke Murmur. You finish your work here today and, if I see your face in the West End again, you’ll find out whether I can piss Holy Water. Go bother the Russians for a while. Or the Americans.”

“Low-hanging fruit,” she scoffed, shaking her head. Smiling and holding up her hands, she added, “But I will happily take myself away from your little island for a few centuries as a gesture of goodwill. Too warm most of the year anyway. I wonder what the Siberians are getting up to these days?” she added, expression turning thoughtful. “Ooh, or the _Mongolians_! I’ve been craving yak’s milk lately…”

Crowley groaned, already able to see that she was going to be trouble wherever she ended up. Then again, she was a demon, so that was only to be expected. “Please don’t encourage them to try their hand at empire-building again?” 

“You know me better than that. Empires lack subtlety. As do wars, so don’t worry about me starting any of _those_ , either. You’re not the only one fond of this planet, you know. Doesn’t benefit any of us if the humans destroy it before they destroy themselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a woman about a book. Thanks for not killing this body, by the way. I’m really, really fond of it. Much more compact and efficient than the old model. Cuter, too, though I say it myself.”

Grinning and humming to herself, she turned and crossed the street towards the coffee shop, half-skipping as she went.

“Have fun, Your Disgrace,” he called after her, sighing and shaking his head for a moment before popping back into the store and buying a few more bottles of slightly-less-expensive, but also much stronger, liquor to supplement the scotch.

He’d gotten complacent over the lack of angelic or demonic activity in the area since their trials. It had, at least, not ended in disaster, but he’d need to be much more watchful going forward. They both would.

On the upside, his day couldn’t get any worse. Hopefully… 


	2. Chapter 2

Cursing under his breath, he clutched his bag and headed towards Aziraphale’s favorite bakery, less than a quarter of a kilometer away. From there, it was just a quick hop to the bookstore. Maison Bertaux was crowded, as befit the oldest bakery in Soho, but the employees all knew him, as every employee there had for almost a century and a half. Well, to be entirely accurate, some of the longer-term employees thought he was his own son, but that was just an occupational hazard of living forever. 

“You’re here early, Mr. Crowley,” the young man behind the counter greeted him when it was his turn. “Surprising Mr. Fell?”

“Thought I would, yeah. Good booze,” he told him, holding up his bag before nodding to the display and adding, “and better pastries.” 

An abrupt, crashing boom tore through the bakery before the boy could answer, rattling the windows and the glass in the display cases. Crowley cursed, jumping and nearly dropping his bag. His shock only lasted a moment before he forced himself to relax, telling himself it was just thunder and to _stop being ridiculous_. The young man stared up at him with wide eyes, biting his lip. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Crowley?” 

He swallowed hard, clearing his throat and forcing a smile. “Fine! Just forgot it was supposed to storm today. Now, tell me how to make Mr. Fell smile,” he directed, gesturing to the display.

“Pretty sure you just have to show up to make that happen,” he answered, smirking, but quickly assembling a box and piling in sweets. With that puppyish devotion Aziraphale sometimes inspired in humans, the young man knew exactly what the angel enjoyed and didn’t even bother seeking Crowley’s approval before sealing up the box. “Croissants, too?” he asked. “We still have some left from the morning bake.” 

“Well, if you haven’t sold out yet, then clearly the universe wants me to get half a dozen,” Crowley told him, nodding and watching as he assembled another box.

There was more thunder as the rolls were boxed and, as Crowley paid, the skies opened up, heavy sheets of rain making it difficult to see the street from the bakery windows. 

“Oh, brilliant,” the young man groaned, producing a plastic bag and carefully tucking the boxes inside. Giving Crowley a sympathetic look, he added, “I hope you didn’t leave your windows open. I hate to think of a car like yours getting rained in.” 

“No, they’re shut,” he answered honestly, not bothering to add that his car, with its securely-sealed windows, was still parked in Mayfair. He was, at least, only a few blocks from the bookstore, and a minor miracle would keep the pastries from being ruined by the driving rain.

Sighing and steeling himself for an unwanted soak and an even more unwanted chill, he stepped outside, not bothering to miracle an umbrella into being since it wouldn’t help in this wind. Instead, he focused on keeping the pastries dry and on walking quickly without bumping into anyone in the blinding storm. It was, at least, already getting warmer. The constant thunder didn’t help his oddly frayed nerves, and he nearly dropped his bags again when a passing police car switched on its siren just as it drew parallel to him. He glared after it as it sped away, resisting the urge to turn the engine into something interesting. Aziraphale probably would have been proud of his restraint, but Crowley just wanted to scream and throw something.

He was grateful when he reached the shop and was able to step out of the rain. It would, of course, have been too much to hope that Aziraphale was alone and in a position to give Crowley some undivided, doting attention. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice Crowley’s arrival, which just made his mood worse. Anyone could have crept up on the angel! While there was a demon working just a few blocks away! Why was he being so careless, so unaware?

Well, obviously because of the human sitting in one of the shop’s armchairs weeping quietly into his hands while Aziraphale stood over him, murmuring soothingly with a hand on his shoulder. Crowley set his bags down on the counter near the antique cash register, taking a moment to ascertain that there was no one else present, then miracling himself dry. That got Aziraphale’s attention, although not that of the distraught human who, Crowley saw, was very young. The angel looked up at him, eyeing the bags for a moment before smiling weakly and hopefully miming pouring alcohol into a glass. Nodding, Crowley locked the shop door, then headed into the back room to retrieve three tumblers. 

“I’ve been to Gerry’s,” he told Aziraphale as he returned to the front room, mostly so the human wouldn’t be surprised by his approach.

Well, not _as_ surprised. The young man jumped, staring up at Crowley with wide eyes. Even with puffy eyes and quite a lot of snot and saliva marring the lower half of his face, he was beautiful. Very beautiful. Sadly it would probably be years before that fact brought him anything but pain. 

“Don’t mind me,” Crowley suggested, setting down the glasses on a little table near him and heading back to the counter. “I’m just the guy who brings the booze.” 

The young man bit his lip, his bloodshot brown eyes flicking from Crowley to Aziraphale and then back to Crowley again: wary to the point of fear.

“It’s all right, Jules,” Aziraphale assured him, smiling gently and patting his shoulder. “You’ve heard all about Crowley.”

“Oh, your… The friend with the pet snake?” he asked, accent a bit posh, but voice rough from crying. 

Enough of a regular at the shop to know that Aziraphale had once been caught sorting books with a snake wrapped around his neck and, judging from his tone, a fan of reptiles. Good enough, then. He grabbed a bottle of the Sullivan’s and carried it over to where the young man was sitting. 

“Rough day?” he asked, opening the bottle and filling the glasses. 

“You look like you’ve been having a rough day yourself, my dear,” Aziraphale noted in an undertone, shooting him a worried look.

Crowley shook his head faintly and picked up a glass, offering it to Jules. “It’s pretty strong, so don’t drink it too fast,” he warned. 

“Thanks,” he answered with a weak smile, accepting the glass and giving it a cautious sniff. 

He was still crying, though obviously trying his best not to, and Crowley didn’t have to be an empath to feel the pain and fatigue pouring off of him. He’d probably been crying all morning, and it was no wonder that Aziraphale had immediately answered his request for respite. The bookshop, like the angel’s arms, would always be opened to lost souls in need. And, while Crowley was no sentimentalist, it was hard not to feel a certain affinity with humans who looked to Aziraphale for comfort and guidance. 

“It’s Jules, right?” Crowley asked, dropping into a nearby chair and picking up the remaining glass. Aziraphale had almost instantly claimed the third and was nursing it with a troubled look. 

“Yes, Mr. Crowley,” he answered quietly, nodding and taking a small sip of his drink. 

Because Jules was very young, Crowley could just about forgive the little grimace he gave as the scotch hit his tongue. 

“Is it too strong?” Aziraphale asked immediately, biting his lip. “I know you don’t drink much. I can get some seltzer, or ice. Or something weaker…”

Jules shook his head faintly, letting out a soft sigh. “I think I need something strong right now. I need to calm down so I can figure out what to do next.”

“Don’t you worry, Jules,” Aziraphale urged. “I’m not letting you leave this shop until you have a safe place to stay.”

Crowley sat up a little straighter at that, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on then?”

The human hesitated, biting his lip and glancing up at Aziraphale again.

“Crowley is my lover, Jules,” the angel reminded him gently. “You won’t find him judgmental, not on these matters.”

“Sorry,” he answered quietly, sighing. “I just…”

“You’re a bit bite-shy, of course,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding his understanding. “Would you like me to tell Crowley what’s happened so you don’t have to?”

He nodded, taking a large gulp of the scotch and retching a bit as he swallowed it down. Crowley grimaced, waiting to make sure the poor kid was able to keep it down, then jumping to his feet. Moving to retrieve the bag from the bakery, he carried it back over, smiling slightly at Aziraphale’s suddenly-eager expression.

“I got some croissants,” Crowley explained to the human, shoving the box of sweets into his angel’s hands and then opening the rolls. “You’ll want something in your stomach if you plan on drinking much, Jules. Keep it from getting too upset.” 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Crowley,” he answered quietly, accepting a paper-wrapped roll. “You’re very--”

“No, dear boy,” Aziraphale interrupted gently. “We won’t have you thanking us for treating you with basic human decency. I know that, right now, you expect cruelty at every turn, but you mustn’t allow yourself to fall into such a mindset.” Before the human could answer, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and explained, “Jules came out to his family this morning. I’m afraid it didn’t go well.”

“Then his family are arseholes,” he answered, leaning to retrieve the scotch and refill everyone’s glasses. 

_“Crowley!”_ Aziraphale reproved him, frowning and shaking his head.

“I’m not wrong,” he answered unrepentantly. Glancing at the wide-eyed human, he asked, “How bad was it?”

“I… Dad may come around eventually,” Jules answered quietly, nibbling at his roll in silence for a few moments before continuing, “Mum, she always said I could tell her anything, but…”

Crowley blinked, stomach churning with hot anger. “Your _mother_ kicked you out?” he asked quietly, ignoring Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath. “The woman who gave you life rejected you for being you?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, voice somehow managing to be apologetic and pleading at once. 

He wanted to rant, to jump up and shout and pace while making emphatic hand-gestures. Part of him wanted to quietly cry as the human had been, another to scream defiant blasphemies until not even the Almighty in Her infinite aloofness could continue to ignore it. The rest of him just wanted to pull his angel close and cling for dear life. He was honestly surprised when he did none of those, and didn’t even bother taking flight.

Instead, he found himself quietly confiding, “My mum, too.”

Jules stared at him with shock, Aziraphale with thinly disguised anguish. Exhaling slowly, the angel whispered, “Oh, Crowley…” 

“I bought into the lie,” he continued, shrugging and avoiding looking at Aziraphale by focusing on Jules instead. “I assumed that all it would take to keep being loved by Her was just… to love Her with my whole being. I didn’t realize there were conditions until it was too late.”

“Oh,” the human whispered. “Oh, Mr. Crowley. I… Did you two ever make it up?”

“Haven’t heard from Her since,” Crowley told him honestly, shrugging. “Reached out a few times, never heard back.”

“That’s awful!” he protested, eyes welling with tears again. 

“It’s not a fair universe, Jules. Learn that now,” he advised, climbing to his feet. 

For a moment, he thought he was about to start pacing the shop, the way his brain was squirming restless inside his skull. It was almost a relief when his legs carried him to stand behind Aziraphale, who instantly leaned back against him in unspoken support. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, leaning close and wondering if there was anything he could say to comfort the young human. Or if he should even try. 

After a moment’s uncomfortable, pained silence, Aziraphale murmured, “The world isn’t fair. It’s not fair at all. But there _is_ still beauty and goodness in it.”

“You have to know where to look,” Crowley found himself agreeing, tightening his hold on the angel. “It’s horrible out there. Everywhere you look, there are monsters with human faces who’d as soon suck you dry as give you the time of day. Then, like they’re not bad enough, you’ve got people who would be fundamentally decent if they weren’t so scared of what they don’t understand. And then you find idiots like this one,” he added, lifting a hand to gently biff the side of Aziraphale’s face. “And you learn what _real_ love looks like.” 

Jules smiled, but there was a wistfulness to it that Crowley recognized, and ached with sympathy for.

“You’re not unloved, kid,” he told him automatically. “Believe me. This git absolutely loves you. He left a warm bed, on a cold Sunday morning, to come and keep you company when you needed him. Because real love is fucking unconditional and unselfish. Real love sees you at your absolute worst. It sees you rejected and humiliated and it doesn’t look down on you. It offers you a hand getting back up, dusts you off, and asks how it can help. And I’m done now,” he added firmly, because the only thing worse than emotional honesty was emotional honesty in _public_. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Crowley?” Jules whispered, staring up at him with an anxious expression.

No wonder Aziraphale liked this one. He had a generous spirit, even at his lowest ebb. 

“I am,” he answered and then, because it was the kind of thing Aziraphale would have approved of, “And you will be, too. ‘Cause our angel’s going to get you taken care of, and then I’m going to teach you not to give a shit.”

“You will do no such thing,” Aziraphale chided. “Don’t mind him, Jules,” he directed mildly. “He cares much more than he likes people to know.” 

“Yeah, I… I can see that,” Jules agreed quietly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowley. I… You probably wanted to spend the day with Mr. Fell on your own.”

“Nah. I just dropped by to deliver some booze and nibbles. Here, you want another croissant?” he offered to change the subject, shaking his head and forcing himself to smile and act casual. “Aziraphale won’t forgive himself if he lets me get you completely wasted.”

Jules smiled, a little hesitantly, and helped himself to another roll from the box. “Thank you. They’re very good.” 

“Help yourself,” Crowley directed. “If you ask nicely, the angel may even let you have some of his sweets.”

Aziraphale made an indignant noise at that, drawing away and staring at Crowley with wide eyes. “Honestly, my dear! As if I would withhold them at such a moment? But savory before sweet. Finish that one, Jules, and then you can see if any of the desserts appeal.”

“Oh, I don’t want to… You had a romantic day planned! I can’t steal your food.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale agreed placidly, adding firmly, “but you can most certainly _share_ it with us.”

“I feel like I’ve imposed enough,” Jules whispered, biting his lip and staring bleakly down at the half-eaten croissant in his hand.

“Nonsense,” the angel countered, shaking his head. “I admit, I would much rather you not have reason to be here today. But you will always be welcome here, genuinely and completely. _We don’t mind._ ” 

“We really don’t,” Crowley assured him, nodding firmly and sloshing a little more liquor into his glass. “We had absolutely nothing on for today and, even if we had, this is way more important.” 

“But--”

“I’ll brook no argument,” Aziraphale interjected. “We’ve been helping people in situations like yours since before you were born, and that’s not going to change any time soon.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Fell.” Smiling a little more firmly, he finished his croissant and eyed the box of sweets as Aziraphale nudged it closer to him. “I… Do you think I should call her?” he asked abruptly.

“And say _what_?” Crowley demanded, grimacing as Aziraphale’s elbow dug into his ribs. "Look, I’m just saying… What are you gonna do? Apologize? You’ve got nothing to apologize _for_ , Jules.”

The human bit his lip hard at that, blushing and looking away. “I know. But…”

“Jules,” Aziraphale began softly, but in the decisive tone of a man who had done this before. Many times. “I know people who will be happy to give you a place to stay, for as long as you need. Your parents turfed you out, without notice, in the middle of winter. Give them a few days to consider that fact. They know your phone number, should they decide to relent.” 

“Relent?” Crowley demanded, sputtering disgust. “Angel, you’re not suggesting that Jules actually forgive them? I don’t care if they change their mind or not, they _rejected_ him!”

Aziraphale turned to face him quickly and, for just a moment, there was something like annoyance in his eyes. Then they widened slightly and he lifted a hand to Crowley’s face. “Your skin is like ice,” he whispered, expression turning concerned.

“It’s cold out there,” he answered, shrugging. 

“You’ve been inside for some time, my dear.” Voice low and full of loving concern, he directed, “Go upstairs and take a shower, a long one, then have a hot drink and avail yourself of my quilts. Go warm yourself, love.”

Aziraphale was obviously concerned, but it felt like a dismissal. Crowley wasn’t following the script, so he had to go. Well, fair enough. Comforting lost souls was the angel’s specialty, and he couldn’t have Crowley mucking it up with his own anger and hangups. Crowley wasn’t objective enough to be helpful, but knowing that didn’t make it sting any less. Making a noise between a grunt and a hiss, he turned and stalked towards the little staircase to the upper level.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” Jules called after him, but Crowley ignored him, ascending the stairs at a half-run and storming into the flat.

He should have stayed in bed! He should have rolled over and gone back to sleep and not let himself be bothered by his angel having vanished out from under his nose. 

Again.

But it was different these days. Why couldn’t he just accept that Aziraphale would always come back? Because he might not, of course. Heaven held grudges and demons were already stalking the streets of Soho again and--

And, so help him, if he heard one more crash of thunder or one more siren, he really _was_ going to throw something! A little peace and quiet wasn’t too much to ask, not after everything they’d suffered through and been willing to sacrifice! But the Almighty, in Her infinite mercy, just refused to cut them a break.

Letting out a shout of frustration that hopefully couldn’t be heard downstairs, he stomped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. “You had _better_ cooperate with me,” he warned, glaring at the water until it started to steam. “That’s right. Keep that up and we won’t have a problem.”

Satisfied that the shower would cooperate, for the time being, he miracled his clothes away with a snap and stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost painfully so, but forcing some heat back into his tense, aching muscles was wonderful. Closing his eyes and bracing his hands against the tile wall, he let the water buffet his back, then plunged his head under the stream to block out the sound of the storm outside.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but his muscles finally started to relax and his mind had, at some point, gone pleasantly blank. It felt good. _He_ felt good, despite a treasonous voice urging him to continue being angry at the angel for kicking him out. Another drink or two, once he left the shower, would silence those whispers. Aziraphale had been right to expel him, of course. It was one thing for Crowley to perform minor blessings or nudge someone to do the proper thing as part of the Arrangement, but this was bigger, more delicate, and something Aziraphale had been specializing in for centuries. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could afford to be bungled, either. It was just too important. Best leave Jules in expert, angelic hands.

_But couldn’t Aziraphale have been more subtle about kicking him out? Kinder?_

He clenched his teeth at that though, shaking his head violently to dispel it and jumping at the sound of a gentle voice calling his name. His feet skidded when they hit the floor again, and he probably would have managed to fall on his arse if Aziraphale’s hands hadn’t shot out to brace him and support him upright. Because the day hadn’t been bad enough already.

“Bless it, angel! Why’d you creep up on me like that?” Crowley groused, shrugging away his hands and pulling himself free.

“I didn’t…” Aziraphale hesitated, sighing and watching as Crowley stepped from the tub. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. How’s the kid?”

“Very sad, and a little tipsy. But he’ll be fine, eventually. He’ll be staying with James and Ivaan for the time being.” 

Crowley frowned. “Those kids you helped out in the 90s?” 

“I think their granddaughter might be amused to hear you call them that,” he pointed out, smiling weakly. “Here, let’s get you dry and dressed before you get chilled again,” he suggested, miracling a fluffy towel into his hands.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, reaching for the towel.

“You’re not fine,” Aziraphale countered, ignoring his attempt to retrieve the towel and beginning to pat Crowley dry himself. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong_?” he demanded, glaring. “I don’t know! Maybe it has something to be with being kicked out during your… whatever you call saving a kid’s future! Intervention?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, lips parted, then he snapped his mouth shut and scowled up at Crowley. “Kicked out?” he repeated. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“What do you call it, then?” Crowley snapped, pulling away and stalking into the bedroom. “I was messing up your good deed so you kicked me out!”

“Is that what you think?” the angel demanded, following close. “Is that really what you think?” he challenged. Softening, he added, voice tender, but firm, “Crowley, you _know_ I would never do any such thing. You were upset. Hearing about the way Jules was treated struck you far too close to home. You were terribly upset, and physically uncomfortable besides. Staying would only have upset you more, so I suggested you come and warm up. I thought it would be better for you to… not be reminded. That’s all.” Smiling, a little sadly and a little hopefully, he opened his arms and offered, “Now won’t you come here, my love?” 

“I’m wet,” he protested, shaking his head in confusion as he tried to integrate his angel’s words with all the hateful ideas that had been swirling around in his own head. Aziraphale was right, of course he was. He’d never lie to Crowley, and really did only have his best interests at heart. “I’ll ruin your suit.”

“There,” he declared, snapping his fingers and replacing his suit with a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms. “Now come here, my love,” he directed more firmly, opening his arms again. “Let me hold you. I’ve been wanting to comfort you since you showed up.” 

“It’s cold out there,” Crowley whispered, stepping closer. He was warm now, physically, but still trembling. “Aziraphale…”

“What happened?” the angel whispered, wrapping Crowley in his arms and then in his strong, fluffy wings. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you this upset.” 

“Long day,” he answered, shrugging. “I saw a demon, not far away and… it’s no big deal. She’s not here for us. I know it’s no big deal, but…”

“It’s still jarring. Of course it unsettled you,” Aziraphale soothed, lifting a hand to stroke Crowley’s hair. “I wish I’d been available to help you as soon as you arrived.”

“Not your fault, angel. ‘Sss not your job.”

“It may not be my _job_ , but it is something I’ll always want to do for you. Now, let’s get you wrapped up, and pour ourselves drinks, then we can talk.” 

“I don’t want to talk, angel,” he answered, shaking his head. “I just want to get drunk and go to sleep.” 

“Come to bed, then. I’ll bring up the rest of the scotch,” he promised, steering Crowley into the little bedroom. “Your skin’s much warmer, but you’re probably still feeling chilled,” he added, bustling over to the bed and turning down the blankets. 

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have walked here, not this time of year. Six thousand winters I’ve been through, you’d think I’d know better by now,” he tried to joke, gratefully sliding into the bed and letting Aziraphale draw the covers over him. 

It felt good, letting the angel take care of him, _allowing himself_ to be taken care of. Sighing softly, he lifted a hand, fingers brushing the angel’s. “Thanks. Let’s light a fire?”

“As you wish,” he agreed, snapping at the fireplace. 

Crowley jumped a little as flame roared into life there, abrupt and fierce enough that it seemed, just for a moment, like it might escape the confines of the hearth. Then it settled down and filled the room with soothing heat and light. He lay back with a sigh, closing his eyes and letting the warmth wash over him. 

“Much better, isn’t it?” Aziraphale whispered, laying a cool hand on Crowley’s shoulder for a moment, then tugging the covers up to his chin. “Rest, my love. I’ll be back in just a moment.” 

He mumbled in agreement, smiling and not opening his eyes. “I love you, angel.”

“And I love you, dear one.” Suiting action to word, Aziraphale touched his lips lightly to Crowley’s temple, then left the bedroom. His tread was light, as it always was, and only the creaking of the third stair made it obvious that he was headed down to the shop. 

Crowley smiled at that, shaking his head and, when Aziraphale returned, he asked the angel, “Why haven’t you ever fixed the stairs?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s just something homely in having one or two creaky steps, I suppose,” he answered, chuckling. “You think me silly, of course.” 

“Oh, yes. Absolutely,” Crowley agreed lazily, opening his eyes and smiling up at Aziraphale. “But not because of the stairs…”

The angel smiled in answer, loving and a little shy as he opened the scotch and filled a single glass. “We’ll share,” he explained at Crowley’s questioning look. 

“Is this some symbolic thing, Aziraphale?” he asked, only half-teasing. 

“Sharing a drink as a way of sharing our troubles?” he asked, setting down the glass with a little shrug. “Well, it wasn’t my intent, but of course I will always be as willing to share your problems as I am to share your exemplary selection of liquor. And, truly, grateful to be the one you want to share them with.” 

He smiled at that, but also grumbled, “Don’t get sentimental on me, angel. Just come to bed.”

“Of course. But, at some point, we do need to talk about what happened today,” he noted, easing off his pyjama bottoms. 

He removed his socks and sock garters but not his boxers. Crowley did his best to ignore the fact that they were red-and-green tartan today. Not so much as an ‘it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas’ joke, for which he hoped the angel was duly grateful. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through his friend’s mind, Aziraphale climbed under the covers and slid into Crowley’s open arms with a soft noise of contentment. For a few minutes, he just clung to the solid bulk that was his angel, drawing strength and comfort from the sensation of having something so _real_ in his arms. Then the familiar sunny scent started to creep in, almost aggressive tonight, as if in defiance of the storm outside, like grass baking under noonday sun. Crowley parted his lips and drank the warm, peaceful aroma in, letting it lull him.

He started to drift a little, and was vaguely aware that Aziraphale was gently repositioning their bodies: drawing them down against the mattress, then gathering Crowley into his arms, sheltering him there. Moaning happily, he opened his eyes long enough to eye the untouched glass of scotch on the nightstand, then decided it could wait. He was too comfortable in his angel’s embrace to move, even to answer the siren call of alcohol. Sighing softly, he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder, then snuggled down completely under the covers, pressing his face into that soft, smooth chest and losing himself in the smell of sun-baked grass, pastries, and ancient books. It felt good, wonderful. And, when he drifted from relaxation to sleep, it was dreamless. 

At first…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I probably should have learned CSS _before_ I started posting the fic. It may seem minor, but I need flashbacks and dreams to be in a different font from the parts of the story that take place in the present. (It's how I roll, or something.)
> 
> This chapter is a bit intense at start, just by way of warning, since we get to see into a very painful portion of Crowley's psyche. There's a POV-shift after that, because PTSD does things to the brain's language centers that would make it difficult to accurately tell a story from the perspective of someone who just came out of a flashback. Also, because Aziraphale's realization and understanding of what's going on _are_ important to resolving the story. 
> 
> On a more cheerful and random note, both of the establishments mentioned in the fic are actual businesses and part of the Soho community. For some reason, I couldn't get the homepage for Gerry's to work in my browser (or maybe my country?), so here's a handy review page I found: [Gerry's Wine & Spirits](https://foursquare.com/v/gerrys-wines--spirits/4ba21d45f964a520b5dc37e3)  
> And, of course, the previously-mentioned Maison Bertaux: [Maison Bertaux](http://www.maisonbertaux.com/sohohome) (Support local and small businesses!!!)

The breathless sensation of heat hit Crowley before his mind began to form the images and, as always, he begged himself, begged anyone who was listening, begged the universe itself not to do this to him again, not tonight, not after the day he’d had. And, as always, his pleas were ignored.

The images crystalized around him, more like time travel than like a dream. On nights like these, everything was even more real and immediate than it had been at the time, when he’d been distracted by so many other pressing issues. With nothing to distract him, he was left alone, trapped in his own memories, engulfed in fire and guilt. Burning with shame and rage.

Seeing the bookshop in flames was bad enough. All those books and random knick-knacks, each absolutely precious to Aziraphale in its own way, going up in flames or melting away into nothing. Near his head, a little porcelain figurine shattered, exploding in the intense heat. Even more distressing was the reek of his own fear and self-recrimination, filling his nostrils and making it impossible to tell whether he was smelling Hellfire or the more Earthly sort of flame. It didn’t matter, though, not really. Either way, Aziraphale had been attacked and, whether he’d been merely killed or genuinely destroyed, he’d have been scared and in pain when it happened. Scared, in pain, and _alone_. 

Aziraphale had called Crowley. He must have realized what was about to happen. He’d called Crowley in his moment of need, been told it was not a good time, and hung up on. The receiver was lying on the floor of the shop. He’d reached out for help and been ignored, rebuffed. The angel, _his_ angel, had been attacked so soon after Crowley hung up on him that he hadn’t even had time to put the phone back in its cradle. Aziraphale, who always did everything properly, had simply dropped his phone, too hard-pressed to do anything else. He hadn’t even had time to protect the books he’d spent centuries hoarding. Hadn’t even had time to protect _himself_. 

Impossible to tell whether Aziraphale had been attacked by angels or demons, and hard to know which was worse. Hellfire would have been, if not painless, at least quick; it would have dispersed Aziraphale’s consciousness back to the light it had been formed from. It would have done it so quickly that he wouldn’t have had time to look past the pain and realize that he’d failed to save the human race. It would have been agonizing but, for a man like Aziraphale, more merciful than being captured and imprisoned in Heaven, aware and forced to watch as each and every beloved human became nothing more than collateral damage in the most pointless war imaginable. A war he’d tried so hard to prevent… 

If Crowley had been a praying man, he might have prayed then, that Aziraphale had suffered a merciful end rather than an eternity of torment. Instead, he raged. Raged aloud at the death, or worse, of the only real friend he’d ever had on this wretched dirtball. Raged inside that he should have been there to protect, or at least comfort, a man who had always made it his mission to protect and comfort everyone else. 

_It’s over_ , Aziraphale had shouted at him and, by hanging up the phone to deal with his own concerns, Crowley had ensured that it really was. Instead of bringing himself immediately to the angel’s side, leaving the problem of Hastur for later, Crowley had ensured that they’d never see each other again. 

“You’ve gone! Somebody killed my best friend!” he’d shouted. Inside, another voice was shouting, much more damningly, _“You allowed somebody to kill your best friend and now he’s gone forever! Because of you.”_

Utterly dazed by guilt and anger, he probably would have stood there and allowed his physical body to die, if not for the distraction of being fire-hosed in the face. Not the first time he’d been on the wrong end of a fire-hose, but it had brought him back to himself, or at least allowed some sort of autopilot to take over long enough for him to grab the first thing that came into his hands and leave the shop before it collapsed on his head.

But the horrible part about having an actual imagination was that no memory or dream ever played out exactly the same way twice. So, this time, no windows shattered under the force of water. No cold blast knocked him on his arse and took the wind out of his emotional sails. 

Instead, he turned and saw Aziraphale’s charred body, and that was _so much worse_ than the absence of a body had been because it meant that his angel was trapped in Heaven, which was an even more permanent and brutal form of separation than extinction would have been. Because, now, they wouldn’t even be together when Hell got their hands on him and extinguished him for good. 

Sobbing, collapsing to his knees, he gathered the body into his arms, clinging to it, screaming Aziraphale’s name, and learning that there were smells far worse than that of his own demonic terror.   


~~~~~

“Aziraphale! _Aziraphale, no! Please, no! Come back!_ **_Aziraphale!_ **”

Always a light sleeper, Aziraphale jerked awake at the first sound of his name being called. It took him a moment to register anything else about his surroundings. Crowley was next to him, of course, right where he had been when they’d gone to sleep. It couldn’t have been long ago, either, since the fire was still crackling away in the hearth, filling the room with the pleasant scent of smoldering oak. But that smell was overridden by the much stronger, nauseatingly acrid reek of fear pouring off Crowley. A nightmare, clearly. A terrible one. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what was more distressing: Crowley’s palpable fear, his pitiful cries, or the fact that his entire body was perfectly straight and still. 

The last, definitely the last. Crowley hadn’t been made for either stillness or straightness, and it would have been terrifying to see even if Aziraphale hadn’t already been experiencing an echo of Crowley’s fear. He’d never seen his friend suffer like this before, not once. He didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know what to do about it, but he knew he had to do _something_ , so he grabbed Crowley by the shoulders and gave him a rough shake. His body remained rigid despite that, which somehow made the whole thing that much worse. 

“Crowley! Crowley, wake up!” he demanded, shaking him harder. 

“Aziraphale!” he shouted again, bolting into a sitting position and staring around frantically. Then, more quietly, sounding more like a lost child than like his usual, confident self, “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dearest. It’s me,” he soothed, not loosening his grip. “Crowley, it’s me. What’s wrong, my love?” he asked gently. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, trailing off into a sob and abruptly collapsing against him. 

“Hush. Hush, it’s all right,” he promised, wrapping his arms around Crowley and gently cradling him close. After a moment’s consideration, he manifested his wings again, wrapping them around Crowley as well. “What can I do? How can I help?”

_“Put out that damned fire!”_ Crowley shouted, bracing his hands against Aziraphale’s chest and trying to shove him away. 

Aziraphale tightened his hold on the distraught man, shaking his head and not letting him break free. He might not have known much about what was normal in romantic relationships, but he knew Crowley well enough to know when he needed to be held. They hadn’t been together long, but Crowley was hardly the first person Aziraphale had been called on to comfort in the past 6,000 years. This was not the first nightmare, or even the most severe, even if it was nearly painful seeing his normally relaxed love in such a state.

“Put it out! How can you stand that smell?” Crowley demanded, voice taking on a frantic edge. _“_ Put it out! _Put it out!”_

Since Crowley seemed to have forgotten that he was capable of miracles, too, Aziraphale flicked his fingers at the fireplace, removing every trace of fire and ash. Remembering Crowley’s complaint about the smell, he quickly replaced the air in the room as well, ears popping painfully as the pressure changed. It was a strange complaint given how much Crowley usually loved a good blaze, but now was not the time to question it. Until poor Crowley calmed down, the only thing Aziraphale could do was remove any possible source of distress. 

“There. All gone; I got rid of every trace. That’s better, right?” he soothed, rubbing Crowley’s back and gently rocking him. 

Crowley sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, giving a shaky nod and slowly relaxing against Aziraphale. “Thanks,” he whispered finally, still clinging. “Sorry. Don’t know what happened.” 

“You had a nightmare. Do you remember? Can you tell me what you dreamed about?” he prompted. 

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to ask, because Crowley shook his head violently, trying to squirm free. And, while he’d probably never have managed to push free of Aziraphale using brute force, his lack of proper joints and general refusal to comply with the laws of physics meant he almost immediately escaped the angel’s embrace. Looking hunted, or maybe _haunted_ was more accurate, Crowley edged away, putting as much distance between them as he could manage on the relatively small bed. He didn’t try to leave though, which was probably a good sign given his usual ways. Aziraphale didn’t try to hug him again, but he slowly offered his hands, studying Crowley’s face.

“Darling, what is it?” he whispered. “Please, won’t you tell me?”

Crowley closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No. No, it’s no big deal. It was just a dream.”

Frowning slightly, he pointed out, “That was _not_ ‘just a dream.’ Crowley, what are you hiding from me?”

Crowley didn’t respond, but his face went pointedly blank, and so did his emotions. Not that Aziraphale ever would have pried but, moments ago, Crowley’s turbulent emotions had been impossible to ignore. Now, all the angel could feel was a kind of mindless, droning buzz.

“Are we doing secrets now?” Aziraphale asked, frown deepening. 

He hissed softly in answer, wrapping his arms around his chest and looking away. “I had a bad dream, that’s all. The… the smell of the fire just…” He shook his head, sighing. “I don’t know. Was just too much for a minute.” 

“You had a stressful day, I know, so it’s no wonder you had a bad dream,” Aziraphale encouraged him quietly, nodding. “But you asked for the fire. You normally quite enjoy a good blaze. What changed?”

Crowley’s eyes snapped back to Aziraphale’s face and he stared, expression incredulous. Panting softly, he whispered, “Really?”

Aziraphale stared in confusion for a moment, trying to make sense of that reaction, then it occurred to him with painful clarity. There were only two reasons why the sight and smell of a fire might conceivably set Crowley off. One had happened thousands of years ago and probably not even involved literal fire. The other, though, less than half a year ago, had happened in this very building. 

“You… Crowley, were you dreaming about the fire? Downstairs? The day… we went to Tadfield?”

Hugging himself more tightly, he closed his eyes, then tilted his head skyward before speaking, voice an odd combination of frantic and stilted as he recalled, “You weren’t here. You called me on the phone and I hung up on you. And, by the time I got here, you were gone. You didn’t even hang up the phone. The receiver was on the floor. I thought Hastur or one of his people had gotten to you. Or one of _your_ people. I couldn’t tell if it was normal fire… and… I hung up on you and you weren’t here. I lost you. I walked away from you, and then I hung up on you, and… then you weren’t here and I lost you. You were gone.”

_Stuff happened. I lost my best friend._

He hadn’t been talking about their argument, or about Aziraphale’s cruel rejection of his friendship. He’d thought… he’s assumed… Oh. Oh, no, that was so very unfair. Poor Crowley. Aziraphale had been a foolish, stupid creature. How had he failed to realize? How had he seen his friend, after everything that had happened, drunk and in tears, and _not realized_? 

Aziraphale had to fight the desire to lunge across the bed and pull Crowley into a crushing embrace. Crowley was in no fit state, and it would never do to show his own agitation. Instead, he smiled sadly, slowly opening his arms and spreading his wings, wordlessly offering whatever comfort he needed, but on Crowley’s own terms, only when and if he was willing to take it. Anything at all, he let his eyes and his heart make that clear; his friend need only ask, or not ask, if words were too difficult. 

Still looking hunted, Crowley slowly edged closer, extending his hands and slowly slipping them into Aziraphale’s. “I thought,” he whispered, just those two words, as if they explained everything. And, to him, they probably did. 

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry you had to suffer through such a thing,” the angel told him, gently squeezing his fingers. “And after everything I’d said to you, to think those were the last words we’d ever share. I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t know then. I barely knew your heart, and I certainly didn’t know my own yet. It must be so painful, and I never helped. I never knew.”

Crowley shook his head. “‘Ssss the passt.”

“It’s not, though, not really. Not for you.”

“Ssshould be!” he protested, shaking his head harder. “You’re back. You’re fine. We’re together. It wasss juss a bump in the road. It’ss _over_!”

“Some things will never be over, dearest. I think it’s the price we pay for being able to care.”

Keeping hold of his hands, Aziraphale carefully tried to draw him close again and, this time, instead of pulling away, Crowley threw himself forward, face burrowing into the angel’s chest and arms closing around his waist in a grip that felt like it might leave bruises. Wrapping his wings around Crowley again, he lifted a hand to stroke the weeping man’s hair. He was crying, too, but Crowley didn’t need to know that. Clearly there was a good deal to discuss, to state clearly for the first time on both sides. But not yet, not right now. Right now, what Crowley needed more than anything else was to give vent to emotions he’d been stifling for far longer than was right or healthy. Aziraphale knew, from observation and experience, that the harder a person resisted acknowledging the things that haunted them, the worse it would be when those emotions finally broke free. And they always did in the end. 

It was painful to consider the amount of energy and effort it must have been taking Crowley to tamp his feelings down so thoroughly that an empath like Aziraphale had missed them. The poor man must be exhausted by the effort. No wonder it had only taken one bad day for everything to come crashing to the surface. Poor Crowley, his poor, darling love.

He’d comforted thousands, if not millions, of humans in his time on Earth, and it was always painful, but not the way it was now, watching someone he loved so deeply and uniquely suffering such agony and knowing that he’d helped contribute to the problem at the root of it all. Not that now was the time to reflect on his own culpability; right now, the only thing that mattered was comforting this dear, loving creature and deciding how to proceed from there. There was so much more to all this than just an argument followed by a fire, too much to resolve during any one conversation. Crowley had been subjected to rejection and pain since the very beginning, which had only compounded his suffering that day. And he was, in general, so resilient, that Aziraphale hadn’t realized what an impact the interlude had had on his spirit. Most likely, Crowley hadn’t realized it himself. But, now that Aziraphale knew, he could help. Not quickly or easily, but slowly and carefully, with understanding and support. 

He remained silent long after Crowley’s sobs faded into sniffles and little hiccups, holding him tightly and feeling his lanky body slowly relaxing. There was so much to be said, but not yet. Crowley would need time first, to accept that this was something that did need to be brought out into the open and addressed in the light of day, to accept that he needed help and that he deserved to have it. First, he would need rest. His usual habit of sleeping to ignore reality wouldn’t be enough, not in this case. He badly needed to relearn the knack of truly resting and letting his guard down. _Then_ they could talk properly.

“Thanks,” Crowley murmured after a few minutes, lifting his head from Aziraphale’s chest and eyeing the untouched glass of scotch on the nightstand for a moment before snatching it up and draining it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You know I never sleep very deeply,” he pointed out, gently catching Crowley’s hand as he reached for the bottle. “I think one’s enough tonight, love.”

He hissed softly, then shrugged and snuggled down against Aziraphale’s chest again. “Yeah, not like I’ll need the help getting back to sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“I’m sure you are,” Aziraphale agreed, resettling his wings around Crowley and stroking his hair lightly. “You know, my love, I’ve been thinking…”

“Nothing new there,” he answered quietly, squirming into what could only be a comfortable position for a man with nothing more than a loose approximation of a spinal cord. 

Normally Aziraphale would have laughed at the way Crowley managed to wrap his arms, legs, and most of his torso around his ample chest and belly, but not at a time like this. If his friend needed the extra warmth and comfort, Aziraphale would do nothing to discourage him. If anything, the rather snakelike display helped crystalize the idea that had been starting to form in the angel’s mind. 

“I think we should get away from London for a little while,” Aziraphale told him quietly. 

“What?” Crowley asked, frowning up at him in obvious confusion. “Why?”

“Do we _need_ a reason to get away for a bit?” 

“You always have a reason for… well, for pretty much everything you do. You love London, so what gives?” 

There was no arguing with the truth, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have lied to Crowley anyway, not over something like this. So, shrugging, he admitted, “It hadn’t occurred to me before, but I’m not sure London is… well, good for us right now.”

“Not good for us?” Crowley repeated, lifting his head and peering suspiciously up at Aziraphale. 

He hesitated, aware that he was perilously close to offending Crowley, which was a sure way to make him dig his heels in and refuse to accept anything Aziraphale told him. 

“Crowley, we’ve built so many wonderful memories here,” he began slowly, choosing his words carefully. “And we’ll always have those. But, right now, there are other memories, too. It wouldn’t do either of us any harm to get away from them for a few days.”

He blinked, considering those words in silence for a few moments before shrugging and pressing his face into Aziraphale’s chest again. 

“It would be nice, don’t you think?” Aziraphale added. “A long weekend together, somewhere warm and a bit private.”

Crowley shifted position slightly, peering up at Aziraphale and repeating, “Warm and private?” 

The angel smiled at how poorly his friend hid his interest in that concept, nodding. “Oh, yes. Somewhere out of the way. Not for terribly long, mind you. Just enough time to get London out of our lungs.” 

“And then we’d come back?” he pressed, biting his lip. 

“Dear one, simply relocating won’t do a thing for either of us in the long run. I’m proposing a long weekend, nothing more. And maybe others in the future, if we want. Getting away sometimes, resting and resetting. Those things can be very healing, Crowley.”

“Healing?” he repeated, turning slightly in Aziraphale’s arms and fiddling with one of his feathers. “Are you implying that I’m sick?” he asked, tone cautious but not actually defensive.

“I’m not implying anything, my love. I am saying, quite clearly I hope, that both of us are in a good deal of pain and have been for some time. We could both benefit from a brief change of scenery. It won’t fix anything, but it might provide some temporary relief, so we have an easier time finding our footing afterwards.”

Crowley was silent, fingers threading through Aziraphale’s feathers again and again. The angel didn’t push for a response, though. His silence, the fact that he wasn’t arguing and hadn’t tried to change the subject, was almost certainly a sign that he was considering Aziraphale’s words. So Aziraphale gave him time to process the ideas he’d offered, and not just the vacation. Finally, one of them had openly acknowledged the pain they felt, the damage that had been inflicted on them in the past 6,000 years, and suggested that they could finally allow themselves to do something about it. It was a lot to consider and it would take time but, hopefully, Crowley would realize that, mixed in with everything else Aziraphale had said, was the very firm promise that he wouldn’t have to face anything alone. 

Finally, after what must have been half an hour or longer, Crowley quietly noted, “The weather’s been shite this winter.”

“It has been,” Aziraphale agreed, smiling to himself and leaning down to kiss Crowley’s hair. “In this part of the world, at least.”

“Yeah. We could go somewhere warm, like you said. Somewhere tropical, maybe?”

“We could, absolutely. Did you have somewhere in mind? If not, I can pick a nice resort.”

“I’ve had my eyes on a place or two. I’ll make some calls in the morning,” Crowley told him, burying his face in one of Aziraphale’s wings. 

“I can’t wait to see what you pick for us,” he murmured, resting a hand gently on the top of Crowley’s head. “But you must be so tired right now, my love. Would you like to get a little more sleep?”

“Will you stay with me?” he whispered, not lifting his face from where it was pressed against the angel’s feathers. 

“Of course, dear one. For as long as you’ll let me,” he promised, hand stroking across Crowley’s flaming curls in a rhythm that never failed to lull him into a peaceful near-trance. “Now, and always.”

And, from there, sleep was never a long way off. Slowly as he relaxed, Crowley turned in Aziraphale’s arms, wrapping himself around the angel and then reaching back lazily with one hand, catching hold of his wing and giving it an imperious tug. Chuckling, he tightened his wings around Crowley, blanketing him securely in warm, solid flesh and soft, yielding feathers. Sighing at that, Crowley went entirely boneless, melting into the embrace. It was the exact opposite of his bodily tension during the nightmare, which, Aziraphale supposed, counted as a good start.

“Dream of whatever you like best,” he breathed.

Holding Crowley close, stroking his hair, the angel shut his eyes and considered time. Neither of them had ever had a healthy relationship with time, always too busy regretting the past or fearing the future to really live in the moment. And, while there might still be things in their future to worry about, he was not going to let the past steal one more moment of their present, not without a fight. It would take a fight, too; Aziraphale was under no illusions about that. Crowley wasn’t the only one who still existed in the past more than anywhere else. They both had a great deal of work ahead of them, ghosts to lay and truths to accept. It would be difficult, and exhausting. And worth every second and every bit of effort. 

Because they were living in a new world now, one they’d helped create, and they had a right to enjoy it. The past was past and the future was uncertain, but the present was a beautiful, ever-changing collection of moments: more important and more precious than any yet lived through. They would embrace it. With work, they would teach themselves, learn to _allow_ themselves to leave the past in the past and simply appreciate each day as it presented itself to them. Some would be good and some bad, but even the bad days would be a victory for them, because they would still be days when they were no longer forced to exist in the past.

It would take more than a few days away from London to accomplish that, more than a few conversations or a mutual resolution to face up to the past and stop letting it control them. Nothing was ever that easy, especially after thousands of years of living an unspeakably dysfunctional existence. But that was all right. Because good things were more than worth working for, and Crowley was the very best person Aziraphale had ever known, their relationship the best thing he’d ever experienced. 

So, eventually, they would work things out. Together.  
  
**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with the boys and I through to the end. It was a rough ride (for them, for me, and probably for some of my readers), but I hope worth it. I promise, things will get better for the ineffable babehs from here on out.
> 
> Also, everything I said in the general story notes still applies. _You are loved; you are valued; you are not alone._

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who sees this: you are not alone, and there is help out there. It doesn't matter whether you're queer, mentally ill, feeling alone in the world, or just having a shit time of things. _You are not alone. You are not unloved. You have worth and value and the world is a better place with you in it._
> 
> You are stronger than the things that haunt you. Asking for help makes you wise, not weak. And reaching out is hard, but it's worth it. Please, take care of yourselves and remember that it will not always be like it is now. 
> 
> SPECIFIC TRIGGER DESCRIPTIONS  
>  **Chapter 1 (and fic-wide) trigger warning:**  
>  PTSD is the main theme of this fic. Anxiety, misplaced anger, guilt, shame, and an insistence that really it's not that big a deal (when clearly it is) are all rife throughout. 
> 
> **Chapter 2 trigger warnings:**  
>  Crowley is triggered more than once, and his mood and thoughts are all over the place as a result.  
> An original human character is kicked out of the house by his parents after coming out.  
> Crowley struggles with his own "parental" abandonment issues.  
> Alcohol-use as a way to settle down from trauma (it isn't healthy but it is common in the real world and it happens in this chapter).
> 
>  **Chapter 3 trigger warnings:**  
>  This chapter starts with a flashback/nightmare of the bookshop fire.  
> The flashback mutates into a nightmare which vividly describes a bad fire and includes Aziraphale's (dreamed, not actual) death due to that fire. In the dream, Aziraphale's burned body is seen (although not graphically described).  
> Crowley struggles with confusion and anger over his inability to leave the past in the past.  
> Aziraphale deals with some guilt over not having recognized Crowley's psychological issues earlier.  
> More drinking in an attempt to cope with unwanted emotions.  
> It is acknowledged that no healing process is fast or easy. 
> 
> I believe that's all of them, although if you think I've missed one, please let me know and I will definitely add it.


End file.
